When Rain Falls (11 page)

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Authors: Tyora M. Moody

BOOK: When Rain Falls
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Chapter Twenty-one
Darnell stepped into another time and space in the foyer of the Lafayette Art Gallery. The quiet, cool stillness enveloped him. From this solemn place, he needed to retrace Pamela Coleman's steps to her home that night. A video camera in the corner caught his attention. Were there more? Darnell headed up the two steps that led into the gallery. He observed a handful of admirers standing at various exhibits.
Out of a group of about five people, a short man with a very thin mustache turned in his direction and then started walking toward him. The man's olive skin and slick black hair made his ethnicity unidentifiable.
Could be Middle Eastern, Hispanic, or a light-skinned African American.
Darnell sized up the muscular structure of the man. The assault and battery charges might have been dismissed, but Darnell's instinct told him, if this man was provoked, he might just react violently.
As he drew closer, Darnell felt like the man was sizing him up like some prizefighter looking for a weak spot to strike a blow. When he spoke, his accent was thick, with a deep twang, almost more exaggerated than what was normally heard. “I'm the owner. What can I do for ya?”
Avante had stopped in front of him.
This is Avante Lafayette.
He didn't strike Darnell as being the artsy type. “Detective Darnell Jackson. We spoke a few times.”
“Ah, about Ms. Coleman.” Avante dropped his voice to a whisper. “Sad, man. Real sad. Going to miss her. Let's talk over here.” The shorter man led them away from the gallery exhibits. Darnell followed him, wondering how in the world this man became the owner of an art gallery. They stopped in the corner of the gallery near the receptionist area. No one was posted behind the desk. Farther down the hallway, Darnell saw an office area.
He'd been taking notes in his head as they walked. Darnell didn't realize Avante had continued talking. “Such a beautiful woman. It's just a shame what happened to her. Of course, I'm forever grateful to her.”
“I guess it would've been hard for you on the inside, huh?”
Avante smirked. “I can handle myself anywhere. But I wasn't going down for something crazy.”
Darnell nodded. “I hear you. So, do you remember anything about that night? How was the party set up?”
“Pretty much the way people are in here now. Guests were able to walk anywhere.” Avante stretched out his arm and pointed. “We had hors d'oeuvres in that corner. Open bar over there.”
Darnell pointed up to the ceiling. “Camera. Do you have only one of those?”
“Oh no, we have one in the back and two around the gallery.”
“Would you mind letting me view those tapes from that night?”
“Certainly. I want to do anything I can to help you. I'll be right back. Enjoy the gallery.” Avante disappeared into the office.
Darnell decided to look for the other cameras. Passing by several paintings, he guessed they were known as abstracts, something he remembered from a high school art class. It really looked more like someone had had a temper tantrum with a paintbrush. He leaned in closer to one painting. The signature at the bottom right corner started with a huge, loopy
A
and ended with a scribble. So, was this Avante dude the featured artist, as well?
As he moved around a wall, the exhibit changed. Instead of paintings, giant-size, photos in black and white scaled the entire wall. There were corners of buildings, a car's taillights, a neon motel sign, and snapshots of objects he didn't recognize.
The photo in the middle dominated the entire exhibit. Darnell stopped, taken aback by the size of the photo. He guessed it stretched at least eight feet across.
The photographer had chosen to zoom in on a pair of eyes. Despite the immensity of the photo, it occurred to Darnell that the eyes held no emotion.
He peered down at the small white card at the bottom and read the title, “Brother Lost.” Underneath the title, “Avante” was printed in block lettering.
A movement from the corner of his eye distracted him. He turned his head and saw a woman standing about twenty feet from him. Was God looking out for him or what?
Mitch Harris's secretary. Here in the art gallery
.
“Ms. Green?”
The woman turned and placed her hand on her chest in fright. “Oh, Detective!”
“Sorry. I didn't mean to surprise you. You seem fascinated by that painting.”
“Well, I'm proud of the artist.”
“Avante seems to be the only artist represented in here.”
“Yes.” She swept her arm around. “This is all of his work. He's a little rough around the edges, but he does marvelous work. It has a haunting quality about it. Don't you agree?”
He eyed Hillary. “Do you mind if we have a seat? I'd like to ask a few questions.” He took one side of the bench and waited for her to sit.
She clutched her large pocketbook to her chest and sat down nimbly. “I know you want to ask me about her.”
“Pamela? Yes, I have a few questions.”
Her eyes watered. “I don't know if this is a good idea. Mitch Harris is wonderful man.”
“Okay, I know how you feel about him, but what about Pamela Coleman?”
She stared off into space for a slight second. “Pamela was a good soul.”
“Really? So it wasn't a problem that she had an inappropriate relationship with the boss man?” Darnell smirked. “Ah, come on. Don't look surprised. I have a feeling you know a lot more than you let on.”
“What do you mean?”
“Did his wife know?”
Hillary let out something that sounded like a shriek and a laugh. The shrill noise pierced the quietness of the gallery. “Nothing went by Yvonne Harris. She calls several times a day to check on Mr. Harris, you know. Her main task is to keep up with him.”
“Would you say she's insecure?”
“I don't know. I guess. Definitely controlling.”
“Can you verify if there really was a relationship between Mitch and Pamela? Would others know?”
“They were discreet. Rumors would float around the firm, but they would die down. I have on occasion made reservations for Mr. Harris in out-of-the-way places, even purchased some things.” Hillary looked like something had punched her. “I didn't approve, but they both are good people.”
“Still, they were having an affair. Somebody was bound to get hurt.”
“It was usually Pamela who got hurt the most. You know that night, not too long after Mitch and Yvonne arrived, Pamela left. She seemed upset.”
“So, you saw her leave?”
“We talked briefly earlier, and she seemed in excellent spirits. The next time I saw her, she didn't look well.” Hillary twisted her hands. Up close, Darnell couldn't gauge the woman's age. She could have been anywhere from forty to fifty-five. Sprigs of gray hair sprung from her bun, which seemed to date the woman.
Hillary glanced at him and then back at the wall of photos. “I don't want you to think I'm showing loyalty, but Mr. Harris wouldn't hurt Pamela.”
“You seem awfully sure, Ms. Green.”
She hesitated. “Sometimes people love more than one person. I will say this. He cared for his wife and for Pamela.”
Darnell eyed the woman. “So, you kind of supported his comings and goings between these two women.”
“I didn't approve.”
But she'd helped him. “By any chance, did you make some jewelry purchases for Mr. Harris?”
“Yes.”
“Recently?”
“Yes.”
“I'd like to have a copy of those receipts.”
“They won't prove anything.”
“Let me decide if it's evidence.” If he could prove the necklace ripped off of Pamela's neck was a Mitch Harris purchase, that might give him a bit of leverage to search deeper.
“You can't judge people for being in love.”
“This isn't about making judgments. I need to find a murderer. I'm no Bible scholar, but I do know ‘Thou shall not kill' and ‘Thou shall not commit adultery.' Those two rules aren't too far apart. All of us can slip.”
Hillary made a strange noise, like she'd been strangled with something.
Behind him he heard, “Hey, Detective, I got those tapes for you.”
“
Have
those tapes.” Hillary rebuked the man.
“I have those tapes for you, Detective.” Avante dragged out the word
have
.
What was that about? Darnell followed Avante all the way to the office, still puzzled by the exchange between Avante and Hillary.
Once inside the office, Avante said, “I think, before you leave, you might want to check this one out. Press PLAY.”
Avante hit the button on the equipment. On the screen, Pamela was looking gorgeous in the same slinky red dress she died in hours later. Her shoulders were bare except for where the spaghetti straps lay snugly against her skin. Someone, a woman, came up behind Pamela.
From the angle of the camera, Darnell couldn't make out the woman's features. Her body was tense. Pamela turned around; surprise covered her face. Or was that fear in her eyes? He couldn't hear the audio, but the other woman moved closer to Pamela, her motions erratic. The woman's hand was visible for a second, and then she smacked Pamela across the face.
“Stop the tape.” Darnell's eyes locked in on the time. Nine–twenty-six
P.M.
On the tape, frozen in time, Pamela touched her face, which had to hurt. Most people reported last seeing Pamela around nine thirty in the art gallery. This incident must have hastened her exit. The face of the person responsible appeared in the corner of the screen. She looked like a cat ready to pounce.
His conversation with Hillary from a few minutes ago came racing back. Maybe he was looking at the wrong Harris. According to this tape, Mrs. Mitch Harris appeared ready to kill.
 
 
A pair of doelike eyes ogled him from behind the oak door, which stood open enough for him to glimpse the baby blue uniform. Darnell flashed his badge. “Detective Jackson. I'm here to see Mrs. Harris.”
“
Sí, Senor
.” The woman closed the door and left him standing on the steps. He turned around to view the long driveway, where exotic topiaries and rosebushes of various heights and sizes lined the edges.
The door opened, and the short, brown-skinned woman ushered him inside a larger foyer. “Mrs. Harris coming soon.” He nodded and then watched her waddle farther down the hallway and into a room. Her shiny black braid swung down her back. A few seconds later, a vacuum started.
“Detective, how can I help you?”
He lifted his head toward the voice. A pair of gold sandals with heels appeared in his line of sight. Yvonne Harris, dressed in an off-white pantsuit, seemed to float down the stairwell. When she reached the bottom, she paused and then walked over to him. He shook her slender hand, surprised by her powerful grip. Even though she was at least ten years older than her husband, placing her close to sixty, the woman defied her age. Her skin complexion and sharp features reminded him of Lena Horne, but not quite as beautiful.
“Excuse me.” Yvonne's eyes flashed, and her mouth turned into a sneer. Darnell stepped back, not sure what to think, as she took off down the hall, toward the room where the maid vacuumed. He couldn't hear what was going on, but the drone stopped; then the clip-clop of Yvonne's heels across the wood floor echoed throughout the hallway. Her face was composed again, making him a little nervous. He almost wanted to check on the housekeeper to see if she was okay.
“Detective Jackson. Sorry about that. Now, you are here for ...”
“I understand you attended the gallery reception the night of Ms. Coleman's death.” He observed her closely for her reactions, but her face remained clean of any emotions. Any traces of the exchange with her maid a few minutes ago were gone.
“Yes. It's so sad about Pamela. Come this way.”
He followed her down the hall. He caught the eyes of the jovial woman who had met him at the door, her face now tear-stained. Man, Yvonne must have laid into her. Seemed pretty stupid, since she was hired to clean this place.
The deeper he followed Yvonne into the house, the more his skin crawled. What in the world did these two people need with all these rooms? From what he read, there were two sons; both lived in various parts of the country. Probably waiting for both parents to kick the bucket.
They entered a room where leather-covered books ran up and down the walls. Darnell's first thought was the room resembled Mitch's office downtown, except the square footage was double and the room had been fitted with a fireplace.

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